Dangerous Man
by Evil Salmon1
Summary: Sort of a companion piece to "Ordinary Man", which I put up here eons ago. Trip's view of Malcolm, specifically just after the first Xindi attack. Mild implied slash, but nothing major.


He is a dangerous man. There is no other way around it. For so long I have regarded him as such that the image is carved into my mind. I had wrestled with his job description for our whole mission, even before we were together. The thought simmered there, in the back of my mind, gaining tangible form even as I tried to push it back. He kills for me. I placed so much on that little prepositional phrase. My boyfriend can be a murderer because he does it for us, for the crew. He isn't bloodthirsty, evil, twisted, or even just in an unfortunate line of work. He's dedicated and strong. He does what he does because no one else can, because no one else has the guts. But I never voiced my thoughts. I never asked what he thought, how he felt, what his motivation and saving grace really were. I just assumed that he loved me, us, so much that he would do whatever it took to keep us safe. He killed for me.

So why couldn't he kill for me now?

I wanted it. I wanted it so badly I could taste it in my mouth, just lying on my tongue. Revenge. Justice. Death. Pain. I wanted them to feel how I felt, but worse. When Lizzie died, I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I wanted them to feel that, literally.

I was so angry, so hurt, and there was no one there to blame. I couldn't cry out, point a finger, and yell at the Xindi; they were gone. But he was there. He's always there. My brain went from grief to anger, Lizzie to Xindi, death to Malcolm so quickly not even I saw it coming.

That's why I snapped at him like that. I'd looked at him as a boyfriend, a lover, a friend so often, but always in the back of my mind there it was. Security chief. Tactical officer. Armory. Weapons. Trained. Killer.

He was my weapon. I saw him in my mind, fueled by love and crunching Xindi skulls beneath his boots, presenting me with the sweet gift of genocide. And for a bit I thought it would actually make me happy. If I could just get him there, find the bastards, then he could do what he was trained to do, what he was there for. But instead of soothing me with dreams of angry flames and alien cries, he came to me with compassion. And I didn't want to hear it.

I was scared, truthfully. I knew that if I stopped moving for one minute I would break down. I couldn't let him see me like that. I spent so much time trying to pull him out of his shell, to make him feel comfortable, that I couldn't let him see me crack. And his understanding, his compassion made it worse. There he was, trying to help through comfort, when I wanted him to help through pain. I wanted the fire inside of me to burn stronger and stronger until there was nothing left in my path to destroy, until everything had been licked clean by orange flames created by bombs and phasers. But he knew better. He knew the fire would never die until it had eaten me up, too. He is a killer. He is trained to end life. That's why he knows so much about it. He knows that there is nothing simple in what he does, nothing clean. He knows the way blood sticks to cloth; whether it is human or Xindi, innocent or guilty, it leaves the same stain. He knows the sacrifices he has made, the pain he still goes through, the faces that taunt him and cry out to him in his dreams. He is not the same Malcolm Reed that was born those years ago. He is not the boy who fought with his father, shielded his sister, and ran from his mother. He is a man with a job: to save us from what he knows.

He kills for me.

Take away the prepositional phrase and what do you have?

He kills.

Am I really comfortable with that? Am I really comfortable knowing that the hands that I long to caress me in the dark of passionate nights are the same hands that wield phase pistols, that dance over controls that can end the lives of so many?

Yes, he's doing it for me. For all of us. But it's still killing. Is it alright that my boyfriend is a murder?

Really, it's not for me to judge. I'm a religious man at heart and believe that the final say in the matter will come from God Almighty.

But as for me all I got to do is look into those grey blue eyes and I know, I see the man, the soul, the passion, the heart, the courage, the loyalty, the love.

He kills for me.

Those two words make all the difference.


End file.
